Ode to Mr. Wilcox

the way his fingers glide down the fret board
making the slightest whistle like
hearing the troubadour take a breath
between phrasing in his tale of love

we both know he is adept enough
not to make this sound, but he purposefully
strokes the strings of my heart
encased in pearl inlays

the resonance from the yawning hole in the brazilian rosewood
echoes out from partial capos
the baritone voice telling deep stories in perfect
time and pitch mixed with open tunings in cross keys

talking of old affections, addictions, climbing high hills
these are the soundtracks for many lives
an unheralded afficionado unheard of by
most who listen to dumbed-down mass produced drivel

which is more than fine for us who
don't wish to share our diamond
only hoping deserved accolades would
fall like leafy notes from his well traveled strings

i didn't brings the mums in this year

i didn't bring the mums in this year
the weather prognosticator with his seal of approval
clicking in slides of the approaching clipper
warned of impending death with white lines and single digits

i watched them through the glass of the back door
one minute stretching to a faltering sun
the next looking at me with panicked and questioning eyes
wondering if their lives were a colorful show

the shovel i meant to wield to extend their annual lives
now rests against the faded cedar fence
half of the spade hidden beneath the first
sticking, lasting snow of the season

head bowed in mournful respect as i stare
at the wilted lifeless mass in the terra-cotta urn
a monument to good intentions and woeful neglect all because
i didn't bring the mums in this year

breath

the moon casts shadows
of the bars on your crib
across your chest, arms up and out
as i hold my breath to listen to yours

your hair matted with sweat
big grin as you practice superman's moves
and wrestle with the arms that hold you
and listen as you pant for more

she has long since drifted on silken wings
pulled down to recharge by the heavy weight of being a mother
the familiar look of the ceiling at midnight as i hear
the deep cadence from the ebb and flow of your lungs

another dark room awaits where i will sit
and ponder the irregular rasp from a bedside
regretfully cursing having taken for granted
every breath of those i love